


Sun-Kissed

by pocketsizedquasar



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: Fluff, M/M, and, i wanted some smooching, i was feeling self indulgent, just cute stuff man idk, so here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 19:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsizedquasar/pseuds/pocketsizedquasar
Summary: A short and sappy little blurb about sunshine, freckles, and kisses.





	Sun-Kissed

Ishmael wakes, again, to a finger poking at his face. 

He shakes himself up, blinks rapidly till the dots in his vision disappear. His disoriented brain slowly processes the hot sun on his face, the soreness in his back, the rough wood of the crosstrees beneath him, the burning sensation of his arm tangled in a rope digging into his skin. He’s somewhere aloft, he finally concludes, and is quite pleased with himself for that deduction until he remembers he’s _ supposed _ to be keeping watch. 

Queequeg jabs at his cheek again with his finger and Ishmael shakes his head, detangling his arm from the rigging and grumbling, “All right, all right, I’m awake.” He just about has gotten his bearings (and is, once again, quite satisfied with his progress) when he sees Queequeg grinning impishly at him and he goes all loopy again. And _ really _ , how can he be expected to keep a good lookout with Queequeg looking at him like _ that _ ? All glittering eyes and rolled-up sleeves and top buttons undone and lopsided grin like he just _ knows _ what he’s doing to Ishmael’s poor thudding heart. As if reading his thoughts, Queequeg leans down, presses a warm sunny kiss to Ishmael’s forehead, and if he was out of it before, he’s _ gone _ now. 

Queequeg’s perched in the rigging slightly above him, hanging precariously between two bits of rope and the mast and leaning over so their faces are close, and Ishmael wonders how it is he manages to stay so balanced in all that mess. He rubs at the rope burn on his arm. 

Queequeg smiles down at him still, studying him almost curiously. 

“What?”

“You’ve got—“ Queequeg pauses, searching for the word. He reaches out and taps Ishmael’s cheek again, softer, underneath his eye. “Dots?”

Ishmael blinks. Queequeg pokes at another spot on his face and slides down onto the crosstrees next to him. 

“Freckles?”

“Mm, that what they’re called?”

“Yeah.” Ishmael chuckles as Queequeg traces his finger over Ishmael’s cheeks, skin tingling. “I get them sometimes. In the sun. They’re usually small, though.” Too small to notice if you weren’t looking close enough, he notes, and his breath catches.

Queequeg smiles at him again and Ishmael feels his cheeks flush. “I like them,” he says, and there goes Ishmael’s poor heart again, pounding fiercely in his chest. 

Queequeg touches Ishmael’s face again, leans down and moves his hair out of the way and kisses the spot on his cheek. Kisses him again, a little higher, and again, under his eye, and again, and again, peppers small quick kisses across his nose and cheeks and Ishmael doesn’t want to say he _giggles_ but that’s probably the only word that describes the sound he makes. “Queequeg—“

Queequeg pulls his head back, gives that mischievous half-smile again, and to hell with the lookout, Ishmael leans up and takes his face in his hands and kisses him till the watch is over. 


End file.
